


I Do Bleed

by Daisy_PoisonPen



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: And That Sucks, Clark got dumped because he died, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Justice League (2017), Romance, and be his friend, but Bruce is there to pick up the pieces, they're switchy in this, with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_PoisonPen/pseuds/Daisy_PoisonPen
Summary: Clark is more than a little bit lost after he comes back from the dead.Bruce is more than a little bit guilty for his part in Clark's death.Turns out, they need each other more than they thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I imported this from my main Fanfiction account, mostly because I want the PG/T things to stay there and my more mature things to be out here :) this is probably edited/updated from how it was over there. still, if you see something, say something!

 

 

**GIVEN THE SITUATION,** Clark was probably more than literally in over his head, and he knew it. He wanted run for the hills. He wanted to stop the insane overload his brain was experiencing. He wanted to just... anything. Literally anything.

The first thing he registered when he opened his eyes was a searing pain in his chest. The second was that he didn't know where he was.

After that, the only thing he registered was water, and the second he realized he was underwater, he was bursting up, through the ceiling, and up, and up, until he was hovering outside, above the ground. It was instinct to him, and it was over before he even knew why.

There was something else thrumming inside his overactive mind: rage. He didn't know where it came from, but it was consuming him in a way he could not understand. It was mixing with the unadulterated terror in his veins, making his blood hot and his skin ice cold.

He didn't think. He just attacked.

Over time he realized who he was fighting—the woman from that night, the one that fought alongside them with a sword, shield, and glowing rope, but he still didn't understand the circumstances, nor could he stop himself from doing so. She said his name, and that made his blood boil more. "Kal-El, NO!" she cried. That was all it took.

Then there were more of them, trying to restrain him, he presumed. But that made his skin colder. What would they do to him once they restrained him? His lungs burned, and his chest ached, a ghost pain from something his heavily frazzled state couldn't clearly pull up in his memory.

And then... " _I know you_."

* * *

**BRUCE WAYNE** had felt this moment several times in his life, the moment when the protagonist of the TV Show or movie fully realizes the category 5 shitstorm that they've gotten into and are probably about to die in. He'd been chased and captured and whatever else a hundred times, and wounded a million more. But none of those moments compared to the moment Kal-El registered his presence and zeroed his frigid blue gaze on his suit, and then on his face.

_Oh, shit._

He quickly realized that this would not be a battle or fight between two people. This would be a battle of Batman playing stay-alive with Superman's fists. Well, his fists, and his feet, and his ability to fly, and a host of other things.

He groaned as he hit the ground for the last time, staying down and raising his hands defensively in surrender. "Wait," he grunted as the younger superhero descended on him like the literal wrath of God, his foot aimed right for the older man's chest. "Wait, please," he said, hoping to be heard.

"Why should I?"

"Kal-El—"

"STOP! CALLING ME THAT!" he roared.

Bruce took advantage of Diana's distraction to mutter a mayday to Alfred. "Now would be a great time for the big guns..."

"About that, Sir, it appears that Miss Lane..."

Superman was glaring at him now. Bruce swallowed hard. It seemed that his laser vision wasn't always literal. The color of his eyes added to the iciness of his stare. "Wait, Alfred, don't say it."

"Master Wayne," he started.

"Seriously—now is not the time."

Alfred stopped speaking, but Superman had already heard. With an empty stare, he looked up and glanced around. Then he reached down and grabbed the older man by the throat, lifting him high into the air. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!" he roared.

"Nothing," Bruce strained, struggling not to pass out. Blackness was quickly gaining ground in the edges of his vision. The others could onlystand by helplessly, knowing that attempts to fight the newly-resurrected Man of Steel would be futile. "I swear. I told her that you would be back and asked her to see you but..."

"BUT WHAT?"

Alfred answered, for him. "Miss Lane refused to come, Sir."

The words silenced his overstimulated mind. _Miss Lane refused to come._

_Miss Lane refused to come._

He let go of Bruce's throat, and he dropped to the ground and rolled over, coughing weakly as his lungs burned from the reflux of air.

Then, Superman sunk to his knees.

* * *

**HE WAS AWARE** of the woman—Diana, he thought her name was—kneeling next to him. She didn't want to touch him at first, afraid to startle him, but eventually, she pulled his head against her chest and held him while he broke.

Bruce sat up, wincing, and watched the younger hero come to the realization that his lover had refused him.

_How could I have wanted this?!_ He'd seen the younger man _die,_ and now he was watching him be destroyed again, and shame washed over him as if he were lost at sea in a storm. It made nausea turn his stomach inside out and his throat burned with hot bile. To have wanted this man's destruction made his already bruised ribs ache and his insides twist painfully.

As if sensing his emotional turmoil, Diana looked up at him with tears in her eyes, understanding warming them for a moment before she looked down again, pulling the younger hero closer. "Clark?" she said quietly.

He shook his head. "I... don't actually mind Kal," he croaked. "I-I don't know... why..."

"Alright," she said, nodding with a gentle smile. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm sorry you've had to go through this."

Clark said nothing, but his expression was completely broken.

Bruce saw the moment Diana's heart lurched, making her tighten her hold on the young hero kneeling on the ground next to her. "Oh, Kal," she mourned. "Let's go away," she whispered. "What do you say? Can we take you away from here?"

He looked up at her, his eyes pleading. "Please," he whispered.

She nodded, and with a final, gentle hug, she pulled him to his feet.

* * *

**"HOW IS HE?"** Asked Arthur, glancing up the stair case.

"I am not sure," Diana admitted. Upon entering the subterranean space Bruce had turned into his Bat Cave, Superman asked her to lead him to somewhere he could be alone. Likewise, Bruce had excused himself to tend to his injuries and had not returned to them since.

Barry was sitting in the corner, still quite a bit shell-shocked. "He... saw me. He actually _saw_ me running. I... I don't even _know_ how to..."

"Yeah, well I think we're all a little bit worse for wear. How's your head, Amazon?"

Diana smirked. "Not harder than yours, Atlantian, but still only a minor injury."

Victor looked up at her and smirked, but didn't say anything.

Arthur shook his head, frowning. "Nothing about that was okay. Do you see, now, that he is not the same?"

"He is going to be fine. He is just hurting. He needs time."

"We don't _have_ time, Steppenwolf has all three boxes and he's going to turn this rock into hell. We need to get a move on, not—"

"He will be ready. He will not let the world suffer."

"I hope you're right. I hope you're all right about him."

* * *

**ELSEWHERE,** Bruce attempting to get his shirt off, but it was clear his left shoulder was dislocated. He gave up with a groan of pain, sinking into a seat.

It was then that he heard it. It was a groan... a groan of pain, much like his own earlier. But this was the kind of groan that came from deep inside, rising seemingly out of the stomach and past a crushed soul. It was the kind that poured out of the mouth with the sound, and out of the eyes in tears, and out of the veins in blood.

Bruce hung his head in shame. "I wish I could take it back," he said out loud. "Every single thing I ever said or even thought about you, every blow I landed. I would take it all back if it meant you wouldn't feel like this."

There was silence for a long moment, and then there was a growl. "You think this is about you?"

"No. I think it is my fault, which is not the same. You wouldn't be going through this if I'd deigned to listen to you even once. Instead, Ibranded you a threat and pushed you until it was too late." He prepared to replace his shoulder, and then grunted in pain again. There was no way he'd be able to set it alone. He considered getting Alfred, but he didn't want to hear it from him.

He honestly deserved to be in pain anyway.

He pushed that thought away. "You... wouldn't have to be without her now if I'd just listened. You wouldn't have had to _die_ like that. I wish I could take it back."

"Well you can't."

Bruce felt his blood run cold. He didn't look up. He didn't even move. He just waited.

He heard the foot falls of Clark's bare feet, and then he felt the warmth of his hand on his injured arm. He tensed, but Clark released him. "I'm going to set your shoulder," he said, placing his handon the other man's arm again, this time tapping him in warning first.

Bruce released the breath he was holding and nodded. "Count of three?"

The younger man nodded. "One, Two—"

"Gah," Bruce groaned as he felt the strange, intense pain mixed with equally intense relief. It was the kind of pain that made people unsure if they even felt pain in the first place. With a wince, he carefully rolled both of his shoulders, testing them. "Three," he said flatly.

Clark just shrugged. He turned to walk away, but then he stopped. "I...there's a lot I don't remember, or understand. But I know that... I know that you and me, we fought. You... tried to kill me."

Bruce swallowed. "Yes," he said simply.

"Are you... did you do this to me?"

He shook his head. "No. There was... a huge monster that we had to stop. Lex Luthor called it Doomsday. You used the—the weapon I made to go against you—you used it to kill the monster. But it stabbed you in your chest. It made... this gaping hole..." Clark rubbed the spot on his bare chest that had ached earlier, and Bruce nodded, his eyes dropping to the ground. "It was horrible."

"Oh."

Bruce didn't meet his eyes again as he said, "I'm... sorry. I've spent along time wishing I could say that to your face, and now I can."

Clark's shoulders slumped. "You wanted me dead... and now you want me alive."

"I..."

"You admit that it's your fault I was dead, but now you brought me back—and why, because you needed my help?! I wish you had just let me be!"

Bruce hung his head. "I couldn't."

"Why?" he asked, defeated.

"Because the world needs you too, Clark."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

**RETURNING TO METROPOLIS** was going to be a nightmare. He was going to have to re-establish his status as a living person... somehow. He didn't want to think about that for a long, long time.

The group was slowly dispersing. Arthur and Victor were first, being the least social of the group. Arthur cited some business he had with his people and disappeared into the harbor soon after they landed back in Gotham. Victor didn't say much, but he did give Diana a nod and Barry a fist bump of solidarity.

Barry pulled him aside and personally thanked him in a sincere but awkward way for joining them against Steppenwolf in Russia, and then made his way back to Central City. He stayed in Bruce's 'Bat Cave' while he figured out what to do, but he avoided speaking to Bruce at all costs, although he sought out every opportunity to be around him. when he did, he felt oddly sane.

He didn't really know how to feel about him. He ended up watching the older man ashe worked on replacing parts on his tattered Batwing and Batmobile. He wasnt sure what brought him down into the Batcave, or why he was just sitting and watching, but he found himself noting the way Bruce's jeans were slung on his hips, a gray band neatly displaying "Calvin Klein" just above the belt loops. He wore a black beater which outlined his every muscle and showed the myriad of bruises and scars on his arms and shoulders fromthe battles before, including their own encounter.

_Their own encounter..._

Everything that had happened between them up until Russia had been fueled by pure rage and hatred. He remembered their fight in more detail now, the traps that the Bat of Gotham had set for him, the searing pain in his lungs when that Kryptonite gas grenade exploded in his hands. The distinct moment when he made the decision that if his mother died, so would he. He couldn't bear what they would do to her and live, anyway.

But then he remembered the other things: the way his fists felt pummeling the other man through his armor, the savage satisfaction that surged through his veins and heightened his hate for the man. Had things been different, he would have killed him. Cold realization twisted in Clark's stomach as he realized that that was the hate and rage that he woke up with. There was only one thing in his frazzled mind, and that was a fight to the death.

Clark hung his head. "I didn't mean to hurt you that day," he said.

At first he thought Bruce hadn't heard him, but then he let out a small sigh. "You know, I do bleed."

A chuckle. "Yeah, I know. So do I, as it turns out."

This time Bruce was the one that let out a short chuckle, although it held no humor. "Because of me."

He thought for a moment, watching the older man work. He noted this time that his posture was ramrod straight, as if he was forcing the appearance of confidence. Upon further observation, he realized that Bruce's shoulders struggled not to slump.

"You've done so much for Gotham. Do you... ever want them to thank you?"

Bruce shook his head. "No."

"Why?"

"Well, overly thankful people can also become overly entitled. They expect things to go a certain way, and when they don't then they are not so thankful anymore. You know this from experience, don't you?"

"I...yes," Clark said thoughtfully. "I suppose I do."

"I know that what I do is thankless. And I do bleed. But I don't care, as long as it's for them." He lifted his head for a second, pausing his work. "For them, but I never want to bleed because of them. Understand?"

"I think I do." After a long, loaded silence, Clark said, "I... I hope never because of me."

Bruce turned and looked at him with a half-smile. "But for you, maybe." Then he picked up his tool and continued working.

Clark held his chin in his hands, just watching. "I have nowhere to go," he said after a long silence.

Bruce let his tool clatter to the ground, turning around. "That's not true at all. You can stay here as long as you like."

Clark shook his head. "N-no! That's... I mean, you don't have to..."

"Clark, don't argue. You have a lot of things to figure out before coming back for real. There are rumors out there since Russia... people recording with their phones or whatever, you know? I've been trying to keep all of that tamped down until you figure out what you want. If you decide to go back to Metropolis, or Smallville, or whatever you want, the League is prepared to back you up, and I already told you that you can come to me with whatever you need."

"Is all of this because of your guilt?"

Bruce swallowed. "You never pulled punches, did you?" He gave another humorless laugh. "Heh. Yeah, maybe that is part of it. But the real thing is, I took it upon myself to care for your mother after your death. She needed funds for your funeral, and a few other things. She doesn't know it was me, but well... the more I watched her, the more I decided to learn about you."

Clark looked up, startled. "What?"

Bruce nodded. "I met her once... I just told her that I met you and knew who you really were... and that I wanted to know more about you. She was leery at first, as well she should have been. But then she just... told me everything. She told me about you as a kid, and about your traveling, and about your relationship with her and your father, and your friends. You had a beautiful childhood."

Clark gave him a sad smile. "I did. My parents... they did everything they could to help me. No one could have done a better job."

Bruce nodded. "I agree. They truly loved you, Clark. I think your mother maybe just... needed to not be alone in her grief. She poured it out on me. And I... I grieved, too." Bruce pulled out a small flashlight which he held between his teeth for a moment, and then he took a pad from a rack nearby and tossed it on the floor, and then tossed safety goggles onto the mat. Then he got to his knees, crawling underneath the lifted vehicle and tugging his tool kit next to him. It was just high enough for him to sit upright underneath with a bit of space for him to reach up to work, and he did so. Then he took the flashlight out of his mouth and said, "I got to know you, in a way. And everything that I learned made me see you in a different light. I was wrong about you, Clark. And the things I used to hate about you, I don't hate anymore."

After a long silence, Clark said, "I think... I think I feel the same."

Bruce stopped working for one second, frozen in his spot. Then he nodded. "Thank you. I'm glad."

* * *

**CLARK FROWNED** as he watched the other man work, a few nights later. Something about the lift was bugging him, and his eyes shifted between Bruce who was underneath, and the Batwing.

He darted to his feet when he heard the groaning sound of distressed metal. At first he knew it was too quiet for human ears, but that quickly increased in volume.

Bruce heard it, but by the time he did it was too late. "Oh, shit—"

In a second, Clark yanked him out from underneath he large machine by his foot, shielding him with his body as part of the lift bent, causing the Batwing to tilt forward with an eerie metallic shriek before it slid off the lift and crashed to the ground. "Are you okay?" He said. Clark's eyes took every inch of him in, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Hey, say something. Are you alright?"

Within moments, two other sets of footprints came hustling into the part of the cave that Bruce had rigged specifically as a mechanic bay for all of his transport. "Master Wayne?"

"Bruce? Oh my gods... what happened?"

"I'm fine," he said with a grunt as Clark stood and pulled him to his feet. "I'm fine," he repeated, "Clark here was paying more attention than I was."

Clark looked at the owner of the second voice. "I... he's fine, Diana. Thanks."

"Of course," she said. Then she slipped her heels off and leaned overthe Batwing. "What happened?"

"The lift failed on the right side."

"We will have to fix it again, then," said Alfred wearily.

"It's not the first time?"

"No, I've had an issue with it before."

Clark frowned. "There's no time. If he needs this thing again, and it's not handy..."

Bruce had thought of that too. "Yeah this does set me back a lot longer than I'd hoped."

Diana studied the lift. "Clark... the metal is bent, but it is not broken. Maybe you can heat it enough for me to bend it back into place. That will make a temporary fix until you can replace the damaged part, yes?"

Bruce's eyes widened. "I... that's not a bad idea."

Clark shrugged and then shut his eyes. When he opened them, they were glowing red. "Go," he said.

Together they bent the metal stand back into its straightened position, and then they simply lifted the Batwing onto it, taking the time to make sure that it was properly placed this time. Clark sent Bruce a pointed stare. "Where'd you get the license to fly this thing? Do they test you for parking?"

"Har har," Bruce muttered, his voice deadpan.

Alfred looked like he was about to join in the teasing rebuke, but Bruce cut him off. "It wasn't flying all that well, the wing was damaged. I did the best I could."

"Yes well, maybe check it or get a failsafe next time you need to use the life. This could have killed you."

"I'll work on it, Alfred."

Clark shrugged again. "It's alright for now. Although, maybe we should hang around, just to make sure it doesn't try to crush you again."

"Yeah," Bruce said dryly. "Thanks."

Diana looked first at Clark, and then at Bruce. Then she turned to Alfred and said, "Something tells me that Clark has it handled. Shall we?"

Alfred said nothing, just nodded and offered her his arm as they ascended the steps.

Clark stared at the staircase awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Then he saw her shoes still in the corner. "Uh—you left you shoes here?" he called after them. Diana came back down the steps, quickly retrieving her heels before taking off again.

Bruce cleared his throat, also clearly uncomfortable. "Well... thanks."

"Oh. Um, sure. No problem." Clark finally looked up, meeting Bruce's eyes for the first time. "I'd... like to put all of that behind us,if that's okay with you."

Bruce's eyebrow furrowed just a fraction in confusion, and then he realized that Clark was referring to the conversation they had the other day. He nodded and then he smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, uh..." Bruce was distracted. He'dnever seen that expression on Clark's face before. There wasn'tanything special about the way he was smiling or anything like that... but there was something incredibly kind in his eyes, which in this light looked like beach blue marbles. Not too long ago, they were glacial voids, intent on his death.

He would have let the younger hero kill him. He felt that he'd earned that.

Clark's brows pulled in, and he tilted his head. "We both... messed up. I know you feel ashamed for how things happened. I do, too. I don't want that to weigh me down anymore. It's tiring. Isn't it?"

Bruce nodded. "Exhausting," he agreed.

Aftera long silence, Clark said, "Okay. I'll stay."

"What?"

"I'm...willing. I want to be your friend. If you'll have me."

Instead of answering, Bruce set his tools down and put them away. "Do you want to... train for a while?"

Clark's expression of concern cleared, and he smiled.

* * *

**TRAINING WAS DIFFICULT** at first. He had turned part of the Bat Cave into his personal training room. When he begun investigating Meta-humans, and eventually bringing them in, he'd decided to have the area expanded to include various training platforms: one for weapons and special abilities, one for strength training and exercise, which was the one he used the most, and one for hand to hand combat training. Diana spent a lot of time in weapons training, mostly alone with her sword, or with Bruce in hand-to-hand.

Clark had watched them fight, going through certain punch sequences and even watching her teach Bruce how to defend himself against sword or dagger strikes. He paid close attention to the training, but did not participate at all.

After a few days, he faced off with Diana, and it was enjoyable to just stretch his proverbial muscles in the training without the threat of his life or the world hanging in the balance. They traded knowledge about their powers and how to use them in combat, testing them lightly, learning how to use each other's powers as a team. They'd all played off each other's abilities against Steppenwolf, instinctively, but everyone knew that lightning didn't strike twice, and it was best to fully know and be prepared.

Clark noted that while he trained with Diana, Bruce observed him constantly. His facial expressions ranged between impressed, to studious, to appreciative. The last one made Clark a bit confused, but he did his best to ignore it.

He winced as he landed hard on the ground, and Diana's forearm was less than comfortable across his throat. "Focus," she said sternly. "Where is your head, Clark?!"

"Nowhere, it's nothing," he said, avoiding Bruce's gaze. "I'm good. Let's go."

Later on, Diana pulled him aside and said, "You're afraid, still."

"What? What makes you say that?"

"You're afraid of fighting with him."

Clark didn't bother denying it, but he definitely didn't want to talk about it. He stood up and padded toward the refrigerator, but he didn't open it. Instead, he rested his hands on the counter.

Diana arched an eyebrow. "You know I won't be here much longer. You will have to train with him if you want to continue."

"I don't want to talk about this," he said.

"You don't have to," Diana answered. "All you have to do is listen."

"I don't want to do that either."

"Too bad."

Clark growled. "Drop it, Diana."

"You are a Son of Krypton. Your abilities are... extraordinary is a small word. But your heart... what you have been through is also unspeakable. I understand, Kal-El."

He shook his head. "No. No, you don't."

"I was there, too. I saw what that thing did to you, and I saw what Lex Luthor's corporation did to your soul. I saw it all. I saw the hole in your chest, it bled on my hands. I watched Bruce push your eyes closed. I was there when they lowered your casket into the ground."

Clark glared at the counter, his fingers beginning to dig into the granite. "You still don't get it. How do I know he doesn't still want me dead? How do I know that his temporary appreciation won't fade like everyone else? He will hate me again. I don't want to fight him anymore." Clark gave a bitter laugh. "You know, he explained tome why he is how he is. He says he doesn't want thanks because they eventually become entitlement. HE'S RIGHT! Don't you see? I didn't ask for them to think of me as some _God_ or... I just wanted to protect my _home_. I just... want them to be safe," he mourned. "And they hated me. _He_ hated me. What do I do now?"

"You learn, Kal. And you believe. There will always be those that fear you, or hate you, or refuse to try to understand you. But you cannot hang on to what they think. You have to trust your abilities and your own desire to do well."

Aftera long silence, he said, "I actually don't mind Kal."

"You told me this."

"I know. I just... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

She laughed. "You did not hurt me, Kal. Stop changing the subject."

"I'm not. I just..." he sighed. "I don't want to blame him. But it's hard when he blames himself." He swung around and met her eyes. "I blame myself too. I let myself fall into that monster. Not the one that killed me, the one that made us enemies. We both had a choice, and we both chose to hate each other. We fought—we tried to kill each other."

"Does the idea of fighting him bring up those feelings?"

"I...no, but what if it does in the moment? I really _didn't_ want to hurt him! I don't want to!"

"I know that."

Clark froze, cold sweat sending a chill up his spine. For some reason, he always had chills when Bruce was around. The strange thing was, the sensation wasn't necessarily unpleasant.

"I knew it that night, too. I know you tried. I was the one that refused to try. That is why I blame myself." Bruce stood next to him, casually reaching into the refrigerator and then grabbing three glasses. He poured each of them a glass of orange juice before pouring his own. Then he turned to Clark, a half smile pulling at his lips. "Listen, trust me, the idea freaks me out too. It's been two cans of whoopass, and I'm not looking for a third."

Clark couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. Far as he could tell, it had been the other way around.

Bruce smiled, pleased with himself for making him laugh. "Yeah. But besides that, trust me when I say, I've been cured of any desire to hurt you. I promise."

Clark tilted his head at the word. "Really?"

Bruce nodded, meeting his eyes with intensity. "I promise."

Clark met his gaze evenly, even though his mouth was completely dry and all he wanted was to look away. They searched each other's faces for long moments, just processing their feelings about the conversation they'd just had. Bruce was taller than him, not by much but enough for Clark to have to look up. Having to look up into his face made him feel vulnerable. But he carefully took stock of himself, straightening to his full height and relaxing his shoulders, making sure to never take his eyes from the deep brown ones probing them. They were suddenly gleaming with approval, which made him stand even straighter.

Bruce patted his shoulder encouragingly, and he smiled and nodded. "Thank you," he said finally. "I'll train with you. Starting tonight."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

  

**AS IT TURNED OUT** , Both Clark and Bruce had been worried for no reason. Their first training matches were tentative, each holding back and carefully assessing the other's emotions. Diana constantly shook her head and tsked at them, her eyes narrowed and her arms crossed as she watched.

Bruce sensed a shift by their fourth session, exactly one week later. Diana was set to leave for London within two days, and she was watching with the same expression, muttering under her breath about how she might have to put off her trip home in order to get those to to function properly, when Clark shifted, launching up into the air, and, in a move that closely resembled what would have been his crushing blow to Bruce's chest, came down hard, his foot aimed at Bruce's stomach. He planted his foot on the ground at the last second, and Bruce released a sigh of relief. Clark didn't say anything, but he slowed down the sequence that led to him vaulting up into the air, and waited for Bruce to be prepared. Then he did it again, planting his foot right next to Bruce's head.

"You're still afraid of me," Clark said, frustrated. "I—just... don't! I'm not going to hurt you. But you won't get this lucky with someone else—someone worse than Steppenwolf. Just get it right, okay?"

They did the same thing four more times, until Bruce rolled out of the way and managed a counter attack. Clark was grinning when he did. After that, they both shook their reservations easily, and Diana left two days later, trailing a satisfied smile.

It quickly became obvious that Clark's aim concerning Bruce was to help him stay ready to fight other meta-human enemies, using his powers to push him to his absolute limits. They trained mostly at night.

Nighttime was better for Bruce for another reason he absolutely refused to share with anyone ever, and that was that there was something about Clark's skin, hair, and eyes that made him look more other worldly in the clinical LED lighting system that surrounded the combat training platform. His eyes turned ocean blue, a hint of mischief in them, and the shadows made the lines of his face and muscles even more prominent.

Admitting to himself that he liked the way Clark looked at all was hard, but in a fight? He'd literally been looking at his death in the form of Clark's bare foot and somewhere in his mind underneath the layers of guilt he was learning to shed, he thought that he would have been disappointed if it'd been anyone else's foot coming to crush him.

Bruce shook the thoughts clear of his mind when he realized that Clark was staring at him curiously. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Bruce answered. He took his towel and moved into the exercise platform, which had a refrigerator and bottles of water along with about a million snacks left over from Barry's time with them. He pulled out a bottle and went for the treadmill, starting his normal cool off run. Clark, who didn't really need warm ups or cool downs, sat on the bench press, not quite wanting to leave yet. After a long silence, he brought up the thing that was bothering him.

"I should go back to Kansas, shouldn't I? I should see my mother. I...don't want her to suffer. But if I go back..."

"Do you think you'll put her in danger?"

"No, not... really. Maybe as a side effect. Clark Kent coming back from the dead at the same time Superman did... and with all the people in town that grew up knowing me and what I did as a kid—I don't know." He sighed. "I remembered something today that made me think that I should probably leave her alone."

"What's that?"

"The night we were supposed to fight... it was because he'd taken my mother. Lex Luthor, he had her taken."

"That's right. He hired a Russian gangster by the name of Knyazev. I ended up being the one to get her out of there."

Clark nodded. "There was something he said that night. He said, 'the mother of a flying demon must be a witch... and the sentence for being a witch is death by fire.' or something like that, I can't quite pull it up in my mind. But he would have burned her alive because of me."

Bruce nodded. "You think that if it gets out there about who you are, then _anyone_ targeting Superman would target her, not just Luthor."

"Exactly."

"Well that won't change because you stay away from her."

"But it will if I stay dead."

Bruce considered this, then he slowed to a walk and took a swig of the cool water. "You don't want to tell her you're alive in order to protect her."

"It's the only way I know how," he said quietly.

Bruce frowned. "Take it from someone who could do nothing but keep away and watch, keeping away from your loved ones doesn't protect them at all. It just makes them... bleed."

Clark nodded. "What should I do?"

"Go home. You can keep better tabs on your mother if she knows she can count on you."

"I...that's true, but—"

"You will be stronger and more focused if something comes up if you know she has protection. That's what you're worried about, isn't it?"

"Well—yes, but—"

"Then quit saying 'but' and listen to what I'm saying. Spend time with her, help her heal. Help yourself heal too. Help her understand how things will change. And, if you want my help, I'm here. Anything she needs, you come to me. Got it?"

Clark nodded. "I... don't want to put you out."

"There's literally nothing I can't afford," Bruce said dryly. "Shit, I could sell your boxers online for enough money to retire if I die at one hundred and fifty years old."

Clark coughed in surprise, but then he laughed. "Don't do that," he said between chuckles. "I know that. But..." Clark stopped, trying to figure out how to explain. "I mean, I should be able to take care of it. You know?"

Bruce shrugged. "We should all be able to do a lot of things. Nobody's perfect, Clark, not even you."

"You're right," Clark blurted out after a while. "It's protection that I worry about, I just...I don't want her to be alone—if something happens, I—"

"Of course," Bruce said softly. "You don't have to worry about a thing. I already have people on my payroll to watch her, remember?"

"I—yeah, but..."

"But nothing. You should go home. I'll make the arrangements for better protection in the morning, and you can check things over by the afternoon. If you're good with it, it'll be ready within the next couple of days."

Clark nodded. "I... thanks."

Bruce stepped off the treadmill, chugging the rest of his water. Then he nodded. "Anytime." Then he winked and added, "All you have todo is give me your boxers."

* * *

**CLARK THOUGHT ABOUT THAT CONVERSATION** well into the day. But it wasn't the offer that Bruce had made, it was something else he couldn't put his finger on. The more he replayed it in his mind, the more he realized certain things, like the way Bruce's voice had sounded—not entirely soft, but definitely with less of an edge than normal, and true and genuine compassion in his tone. He wasn't talking to the cool rich playboy that could do whatever he wanted.

There was more too. It was less tangible, but when the thought finally struck him, Clark was flabbergasted. Clark realized that, besides the complete lack of judgement in his tone, Bruce was open, free of emotional armor. It was the first conversation they'd ever had where they each were somehow vulnerable: Clark with expressing this fear, and Bruce in simply listening. There was no irony or clearly evasive answers like those he gave others in the League. In fact, the only person he'd seen Bruce be that way with was Diana... and as far as he knew, Diana hadn't tried to kill him.

He really had to drop that. They'd agreed to put it behind them... to be friends. But to be honest, with their histories and traumas, and their attempts to be open, friendship was such a hollow word for what they needed. The way they were beginning to understand and relate to each other was far too layered and confusing to be friendship.

_Also, watching Bruce run and be sweaty is something I could get used to._

Clark choked.

* * *

**BRUCE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT CONVERSATION** well into the evening. Eventually, after dinner, he began to get ready for another night of training, or messing with his Batwing, or any of the other things he did while he waited for something to pop off in Gotham. Alfred normally stayed up to date on the databases he ran, which compiled the day's police incidents and reports, as well as radio calls during the night and extrapolated them to identify patterns that could potentially lead to suspects... much like some modern police departments had their MO-identifying databases, but this extrapolated everything happening in the harbor in real time.

All of those things were in his mind as he carefully wrapped his hands and stood in front of the punching bag after his warm up, but as he began to work, carefully measuring his hits, combinations and sequences of blows, and working on his speed and posture, his mind brought up that conversation again and again.

After that night—the night that shall not be named—he was almost mad at himself for not realizing that the strongest man in the world had avery simple weakness. He might have changed the outcome of his hateful campaign drastically. On the other hand, that was a terrible thing to think. On yet a third hand (he ran out of hands, oh God) there was nobody worse for humanity to expose that weakness than Lex Luthor, and he felt horrible for what both Clark and his mother had gone through.

He liked to think that he was different, though. Were he able to ever become that close to the Man of Steel, he wanted to be his strength, not his weakness. Actually, he wanted to be closer. And his strength. And his weakness.

That was a thought that made his skin prickle. There was that category 5 shitstorm again, the one that was definitely going to kill him. This time its name wasn't Superman. Its name was Clark Kent.

_Oh...shit._

* * *

**WHEN CLARK** arrived in the training room one night and saw Bruce working with the punching bag, he didn't think much of it. He just went in and waited for Bruce to be ready. He was studiously avoiding looking at Bruce for any long period of time, because...well, he didn't want to choke again. And now that he knew he would, he was avoiding it.

Part of him wasn't really sure why. There were excuses he could make to rationalize his avoidance of the issue—namely his recent return from the dead and the complications that brought about, and the second thing was, he needed closure with Lois.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the more he stayed around Bruce, he realized that the intense emotion he felt for her was changing...morphing into something different, but also something he suspected in retrospect had always been the case. He was _thankful._ Truly grateful for every time she supported him, went to bat for him, stayed with him when no one else would. She had always had his back.

But now, Bruce was doing those things, and he wasn't doing them with any expectations. He was doing them simply because he could, and they were team members. Nothing else.

_Nothing else._ That thought made a twinge of melancholy ache in his chest, and he rubbed it absently as he turned around, ready for a hard match. He could tell by the sounds and grunts he heard near the punching bag that Bruce was in the zone, which meant that this was going to be their toughest match yet.

"Ready?" he asked.

Bruce didn't answer except to attack.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 **ONE MOMENT,** they were fists and grunts, playful teasing and challenging glares, focus and practice, and then in another moment they were a mess of mashed lips, harsh nails and torn clothes, wet tongues and sharp teeth, and sounds that made Clark's face burn as he remembered them. He felt... absurd. Probably even certifiable. _Did that happen? *How* did that happen?!_  

He opened his eyes a bit disoriented, confused by the light from the floor to ceiling windows that framed a picturesque day by the water before realizing where he was. The second he did, everything from the night before crashed down on him like kryptonite cinderblocks. His heart was thundering in his chest as his skin pebbled. Each touch, kiss, and sound pulled at him until he actively had to count out his breaths to keep himself from panting like an animal.

He chanced a look over to the other side of the bed, anxiety beginning to build up in his mind. What would he do when he woke up? Would he be angry or embarrassed? Would he ask Clark to leave? That thought made his chest and stomach squeeze painfully, as did the one that followed: _Will he hate me again?_

There was no way. He forced that thought out of his mind. They were... friends? now, if tentative ones, and they each did their best to respect the other. Bruce made it clear that his feelings toward Clark had changed, but... did that mean they'd changed to... whatever this was? What even was it? Would it happen again?

Again the memories from the night before warmed his face and chased the chill away from his spine. He pressed his hand to the side of his neck, willing his hypersensitive skin to stop remembering too so that he could try to think through the haze he found himself in.

Then a sound next to him made him freeze. First it was a huff. Then, another huff, followed by chuckling. Then, full-blown cackling.

Clark's eyes popped open so far he thought they would fall out of his head and roll away. Wow, he really was feeling absurd. "What... are you laughing at?" he managed.

Bruce wheezed as he turned over to face him, trying to stop himself from cracking up. "Clark," he coughed before doubling over again. The only thing that made Clark feel an ounce short of utterly humiliated was the fact the Bruce was still touching him. Finally, he calmed down enough to explain, resting his head on the younger man's arm. "If someone ever told you that we'd wake up like this— _and_ be happy about it—would you have believed them?"

Clark finally saw the cause for the amusement and breathed a chuckle of his own. "I probably would have punched them."

Bruce laughed again. "Yeah me too, with a bullet."

Clark laughed harder this time, relief aiding in the strength of the sound. "That would be rude."

Bruce shrugged, lifting up on one elbow and leaning over him. His eyes took in every detail of Clark's face, glinting with something that resembled mischief but wasn't. "Yeah, well... you should know by now that manners aren't my strong suit."

Clark started to agree, but was quickly cut off by Bruce's mouth on his.

* * *

**THINGS WERE DIFFERENT** after that. The first thing that changed was that Clark seemed lighter. He was less in his thoughts, introverted. He smiled a lot and he started to let go and have more fun with Bruce during their training sessions. In return, Bruce seemed to continue to shed that emotional armor he always seemed to guard himself with, and Clark learned a lot about him in the weeks that followed.

The second thing that changed was their training. They continued to train at night, which was when Bruce preferred to be active as Batman, and because he insisted he did his best work at night. But at night, when they were alone, training took on an undercurrent of sexual tension that they didn't bother ignoring. Clark gave up on being around when Bruce was running after he literally tackled the other man off of it, trashing it completely. Bruce made it a point to make suggestive jokes every time he managed to pin the other superhero down during a match, and Clark retorted with words only about half of the time.

Their time outside of training was becoming consumed with that tension also. There was once that Bruce arrived home to find Clark alone in the kitchen, as Alfred had taken the day to do something Bruce had asked. He was using his super speed to cut vegetables for some omelettes, and somewhere between "hey, you're back" and "what's for breakfast?" they'd had a tryst in the kitchen that required a plumber to fix the sink, and them ordering from IHOP.

Clark was sitting in the living room, his cheeks on fire as he remembered the kitchen incident, when Bruce walked in and caught him like that. "What's wrong with you?" He asked.

"I... nothing," he said, his cheeks flaming even hotter.

Bruce arched an eyebrow. "Tell me," he said, his expression letting Clark know that he already had an idea.

Clark shook his head.

"Clark..."

"You know what, make me," Clark challenged finally, standing up and leveling the older man with narrowed eyes and a barely-visible smirk.

Bruce never did make him, but they wrecked the living room while he tried.

* * *

**THE WEEKS** turned into one month, and then two and then more. Their strange relationship continued, not really developing more, and not really slowing down. Neither man brought up the idea of talking about it, trying to figure out what they really wanted. They didn't talk about any of it, actually. It just... happened. Often. And everywhere. It was always intense: passionate, challenging, and almost _brutal,_ the way it was when they first began.

During that time Clark did cave in and visit his mother, his concerns no longer strong enough to keep him away from her. Going home to her could have been an epic shot in _Chariots of Fire_ as he ran down the long drive to the house, feeling as if the world was in slow motion the moment his mother saw his face.

"C-Clark?" She said, tears instantly dripping down her cheeks.

All he did was open his arms, and she jumped into them, holding him tightly while she cried. She looked at him in disbelief for hours, tears running down her splotchy cheeks and dripping away as she pressed her palm to his cheek, or ran her fingers through his hair, or hugged him, or _anything._ Each time she did he held her patiently. He got up and made her some tea and then they sat on the couch, right next to each other while she asked him all kinds of questions about what had happened, and how he was alive, and what would happen with him now: where he was staying, if he'd tried to go back to work, or to his friends.

"Have you... spoken with Lois?" Martha asked.

Clark shook his head, his chest suddenly heavy. "No. I... when they brought me back, she refused to come."

Martha frowned. "That's not like her."

Clark stared at his hands. "I don't know why she refused to come," he said quietly. "But I... I hope that things are okay for her. They are for me." He looked up then, meeting his mother's eyes. "Better than okay. Someone has been... helping me. It's been a huge readjustment but he's... always there. His name is Bruce."

Martha tilted her head. "That's funny. There was a man that came to see your... your grave. More than once. He is a famous man, his name is Bruce Wayne."

Clark smiled. "That would be him. He is... the one that rescued you from the warehouse that night. He told me he checked up on you."

Realization dawned on Martha's face, and then she scowled. "You should tell him to make his 'Batgoons' less obvious, also."

" _'Batgoons?!'"_ Clark laughed out loud. "No, I asked him to give you goons. They are your goons, Mom." Clark's eyes watered and he looked away. "You know that there is very little that scares me. You can even add death to the list of things that I'm not afraid of."

Martha didn't know what to say about that.

"But when Luthor... said... when he told me that he would kill you if I didn't do what he said, I've never been more terrified in my life. I never want anyone to hurt you again." He sighed. "That's why it took me so long to come. I thought that if I just stayed away—stayed _dead—_ then you would be safe."

Martha hugged him against her. "Oh, my son," she said into his hair. "I love you more than my own life," she whispered. "There isn't a man in this world that would make me regret you. Not that man, and not any other. You make the world a better place just by being in it, Clark. I would risk everything for that."

"I wouldn't risk you," Clark said.

"But you don't have to anymore. You had Mr. Wayne send me Batgoons."

Clark couldn't help his laughter. "That was the idea, yes. But _Batgoons,_ though?"

"And you've been staying with him, have you?"

Clark nodded, a frown pulling at the space between his eyebrows. "Yes, but... something's happening, and I don't quite understand it."

"Something good?"

"I'm not sure. I... yes, I think it's good. Or it could be. I don't know, right now it's more confusing than anything else. I don't really know how to make sense of it."

Martha was silent for a while. She knew from the days leading up to his death that he'd been afflicted with tremendous grief and guilt, and in the time after wards, so had Mr. Wayne. Once, she'd gone to sit by her son for a while, and arrived only to find him there, kneeling infront of the headstone and tracing Clark's name with his fingers. She was startled when she realized that he was almost in tears as he knelt there. It seemed like he was begging for forgiveness.

"You both went through something horrific," she said finally.

Clark nodded. "But... we're working past it, I think. No, that's not the only thing that is confusing."

"Oh," Martha said, enlightened. "These things are always confusing at first. The only way to find clarity is to look deep inside yourself and realize what the truth is. Without lying to yourself or making up excuses. Just realizing the truth of the whole situation and accepting it. That will be the moment when you know just what to do."

Clark frowned again. "I... don't think I'm ready to do that."

"You probably are, more than you think. Something will happen and you won't have a choice but to do it. And when you do, you'll know."

* * *

**WHEN HE RETURNED** to Bruce's house he was immediately yanked into the bedroom. "Hey, what—mmph." He chuckled as Bruce finally let go of his lips. "Hey," he said with a happy grin.

"Yeah, hi," Bruce answered, "Get on the bed."

Clark arched an eyebrow. "Demanding, aren't we?"

"Very. Move it."

"Or what?"

Later on, Clark woke up in the dark, looking around curiously. "Bruce?" Nothing. "Hey... where'd you go?" He stood up, listening carefully for anyone in the house. Where was he?

He stood up, pulling on sweatpants as he went. He padded across the spacious bedroom and opened the door. Everything was dark, and it quickly became obvious that there was no one in the house. He extended his hearing down below the house, expecting to hear two voices. Instead, he only heard one.

Lowly, he heard Alfred's voice down in the Batcave. What he was saying made Clark's blood boil. Fury he'd never felt in his life seemed to flood him from his toes all the way up to the ends of his hair like lava. He focused carefully, extending his hearing again, far into Gotham City. When he found everyone he was looking for, he went to the closet.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**THAT MOMENT** Bruce vividly remembered feeling like death was imminent, he was living it again.

He had been working 'with' (by that he meant, stealing files from) the Gotham City Police Department regarding an floating gambling ring. They suspected that, in addition to illegal gambling games, there were being people held against their will, men women and children, for a human traffic ring comprised of floating fight rings. In other words, people of all ages were being sold to these rings so that they could fight to the death.

The horror those people had to be facing was enough to prompt Bruce out of his bed, finally warm again for the first time in two weeks, since Clark had left to see his mother. Upon his arrival, he'd noted that the house was in disrepair, but worse than that, it was in foreclosure. Desperate, he'd called Bruce in a panic.

Of course Bruce had a few strong words for Martha's security and then he promptly did some schmoozing and blackmail, forcing the CEO of the bank corporation that owned Martha's loan to resign while getting several people to sell their shares. Within the week, he was the majority share owner in the corporation and was set to hire a new CEO within the month. Around that time was when Alfred updated him that he was going to be able to get a fix on the leaders of the slave-fighting ring.

So, on the night that Clark returned home, when Alfred said that he had located where they were holding the hostages and the location of the next fight their leaders would attend, he couldn't resist. He slipped out while Clark was still asleep and got ready.

However as the mission progressed he realized that he couldn't apprehend the targets AND save the hostages. So he made a snap decision. He shot trackers at the men that were transporting the hostages and then at himself, and then he let himself get captured.

Now he was in the basement of an abandoned apartment building, and he actually wasn't sure where he was anymore. He'd been knocked out and now they were cordially beating the shit out of him. They were trying to get him to tell them about whether or not the police knew their location. Of course he would not open his mouth, but it was starting to wear on him. He knew his ribs were at least bruised if not cracked, and his fingers were going numb from the tight rope around his wrists. From the wetness, he knew they were bleeding. All he could think about was how much he had missed Clark. The house felt empty without him, and so did he. It was how he felt now that he was sure he'd stepped in it for good.

An angry yell interrupted his dark thoughts. "They took. My MERCHANDISE!" The next second, the man had a knife pressed against Bruce's throat. He could feel his pulse throbbing against the sharp tip. "You will TELL ME who you are! Or you will DIE!"

"You sound like a maniac," Bruce said flatly. Immediately, a sharp sting was followed by a trickle of hot wetness that pooled in the base of his throat.

Bruce pressed his lips together stubbornly. Thankfully, after the horrible dream he had before Clark's death, he'd made an adjustment to his suit that made his cowl almost impossible to remove. Simply yanking it off would never happen. The men had tried and tried to get it off, but they couldn't. They would kill him before they knew who he was.

And that would probably happen tonight.

Bruce waited for the sharp pain of the knife, but nothing else happened. Instead, a shadow suspended about thirty feet in the air made everyone in the room freeze.

The second after the shadow appeared, the knife was gone from his neck and a sharp cry was heard. Then in the next instant, there was gunfire.

Clark's distinct smell filled his nose as he shielded Bruce from the hail of bullets with his body. He loosened the ropes at his wrists and then drew their fire, allowing Bruce time to collect himself, and even tale out some of the guys with his throwing stars. As he did,he noticed something was missing from his utility belt.

There was a _fssh—BOOM!_ But Bruce was completely shielded from the flames and heat. The wood andcement creaked and groaned around them, the sound of metal caving as a result of the blast making Bruce tense up. Before he could say something, Clark had him by the arm, towing him high into the air.

* * *

**THEY LANDED**  on a rooftop near downtown Gotham. The second they did, Clark exploded. "Have you LOST YOUR MIND?!"

"How did you—"

"How the _fuck_ dare you?! Are you insane?!"

Bruce instantly bristled. "Yeah I'm out of my mind and stupid because I don't have fancy powers or a cool mystical weapon to make use of, right? Poor little Batman, the mortal that tries to be like the rest of us—"

Clark seethed. "If you think that is why I am angry then you don't know me at all."

"Why are you angry then, Clark?"

"BECAUSE OF YOU!" He shouted. "YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN YOURSELF KILLED!"

"I had a plan, you know."

Clark snorted. "Don't lie to me," he said irately, "I heard you from across the lake. I saw your face. You thought you were going to die. You call that having a plan?"

"It was a last minute decision. I can't track people for miles the way you can, or force information out of people like Diana can. I ran out of options. I couldn't save them and catch those monsters—"

"So you just... let yourself get caught without back up. That's a great plan, Bruce. You just expected everything to go well that way?"

Bruce seethed. "You know what I do expect? I expect you to let me do my job and mind your own goddamn business."

If Clark could have spontaneously combusted, he would have. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, I—"

Clark held up his hand. "I'm honestly done hearing your bullshit," he said, leaving Bruce's words stuck in his throat. "Listen to me carefully, Wayne. I'm only going to tell you this once. You will _never_ let yourself get captured like that again. Do you hear me? If you get captured, I don't care how _mad_ you get at me, and I don't care how much of an asshole you get to be when you put on that suit. If you are taken, I will come for you. And if they've harmed you, they will die."

Before Bruce could say anything else, Clark shot up into the sky, leaving low, thunderous rumbles and a strong breeze in his wake.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

CLARK DIDN'T LOOK AT HIM or speak to him. He was still practically vibrating with anger when Bruce got the Batmobile back home, but he said nothing. He stitched redressed each of the older man's wounds in silence and then, with his eyes slightly narrowed, looked him over once before swallowing hard. He grabbed a large, thick, elastic wrap and began to wrap his torso, confirming Bruce's suspicion of cracked ribs.

Then he went up the stairs and to the east guest suite, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass in the entire house rattled.

Bruce dragged himself to the bedroom, letting the door click quietly behind him. He stared at his bed for a long moment, trying to decide how best to lay down without hurting himself too much.

Now that the adrenaline was fading, the numb spots on his back, arms, shoulders, neck, chest, and face were beginning to throb uncomfortably. His rib cage felt like loose teeth, and his head was pounding. He groaned. "How do I do this?" He muttered.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Clark's hand was guiding him gently by the elbow, already changed into sweatpants. He arranged the pillows on the bed and then supported Bruce's weight while he laid down. He noticed the younger man's detailed physique as he moved around, adjusting the blankets and pillows until he was satisfied that Bruce was comfortable.

Then, in a completely unexpected gesture, Clark leaned over and pressed his mouth firmly to his. Bruce could tell he was still furious, but, as he found himself kissing back, he also found himself going back in his mind to every single time Clark had ever touched him in the months since he came back.

When they fought, Clark was incredibly focused on pushing him to his limits without causing damage. When they _fucked—_ even in their most primal moments, he could feel the restraint Clark had. When they'd trashed the treadmill, he'd been careful to shield him from getting injured in the wreck. When the Batwing fell off the lift, Clark was there and blocked him completely with his own body. When he towed him high into the air tonight, he had carried him and placed him in front of his car in such a way that he never felt a single one of his injuries. Whatever Clark blew up didn't even hurt his ears because Clark had covered them.

Each memory detonated in his mind the realization that Clark was extremely careful with him. More than careful, he was _protective._ Clark wanted to protect him. But why? He was Batman.

_And_ _Batman is an idiot,_ he told himself. This wasn't the cheesy protectiveness that people wrote about in books or put in movies. This was genuine and almost instinctive care about his safety and proactive measures to make sure someone he cared about would always be safe. He knew from previous conversation that protection for Clark's mother was a burden on his mind, but he had no idea the lengths to which Clark would go to enforce it.

Until now. _"If you are taken, I will come for you. And if they harm you,_ _they will_ _die."_ That statement shocked him to his core all over again. The larger-than-life guardian of humanity that had _died_ for them all had sworn in full heated wrath that he would kill. _For him._

_Oh, shit._ Bruce's blood turned to ice as he realized that the thing that was missing from his utility belt was a flash grenade. The room that they were in was, of course, a cliche warehouse basement space full of radiators and gas lines and the like. He realized that Clark threw a flash grenade into a boiler, the kind that had a gas lighter in order to heat water. The flash must have ignited the gas, and that ignited the whole room. In other words, Clark already did kill for him, without apology. He blew all of those fuckers straight to hell, no passing go, and no collecting two hundred dollars.

And because he _cared about him? Oh... shit._ This thing between them was quickly becoming an mess of tangled knots on entangled knots with a tangled web that they were very bad at weaving. He didn't want to think about that too much, but he couldn't help the feeling that washed over him at the realization that Clark's care for him ran deeper than just friendship, or fantastic sex. He really wanted to do better when it came to Clark... and he thought he had been. But he should have known better.

In the light of all these revelations, his actions did seem foolish. The idea of Clark seeing him, bloody and bruised and dead, the way he'd seen Clark in the past, it made him wish he'd stayed home.

"Clark? I'm... sorry." Clark's face instantly went impressively blank. He still hadn't said anything, and Bruce took the silence as a chance to continue. "I didn't realize... but I should have. You were right, and so was Alfred. I promise you that I will take better care of myself."

Clark searched his face in the dark for a moment, and then he nodded. He stood and slipped out of the room, returning moments later with an ice pack in one hand, which he pressed to his cheek. After a while, when the pack started to warm, Clark simply took it from him, blew on it, and gave it back. His ice cold breath had literally refrozen the ice pack. He still hadn't said anything, and Bruce could tell he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He wanted him to let them out instead.

"Will you say something?"

Clark looked away, his face blank again. Then he said, "There have been times where I can't do anything to stop what is happening. My father died in a sudden tornado—just swept away by the wind like a piece of dust. We didn't find his body for days."

"Clark..."

"He died and he made me stand there and watch. He did not want me to use my abilities to save him."

"So you didn't."

"And now he is dead." He hung his head. "I still blame myself for it. I should have ignored him. But I... don't like to make the same mistake twice." Clark swallowed, and in the dim moon light, wetness dripped from his eyes and made his face shiny. "You will not make me stand there and watch, Bruce Wayne. I am a different person now."

Bruce nodded. "I know you are. And I swear that I won't."

"But you've been doing that. To Alfred."

Bruce sighed heavily. "I... know. He just..."

"He's the only family you've had in a long time. I think his worry deserves more consideration from you."

Bruce hung his head, ashamed.

"No more of this. Promise me. Besides me, there are the others. We're supposed to be a team now."

"I promise." Then he gave a small smile. "All I have to do is say your name."

Clark finally smiled back.

* * *

**BRUCE LEARNED TWO THINGS** that week: the first was that Clark made a better body pillow than the mountain of pillows he'd arranged to help Bruce rest his ribs. The second was that he could be an extremely possessive _asshole_ , and that Clark didn't mind that.

It started with the fact that, although they'd mostly made up, Clark was still feeling pretty raw about the Human Traffic Fight Ring Debacle, only notable by the moments when he winced and Clark would look away or clench his teeth. Apologizing over and over was useless, so Bruce didn't bother. But it made him feel a bit distant and awkward with him, even though they still carried normal conversation the majority of the time.

On one of these conversations, Clark brought up that it was probably time for him to go about the task of getting his life back.

"What? Why?" Bruce said, hoping he'd kept the sharp edge out of his tone.

Clark sighed. "I don't know... I want to work. Be around people—be normal."

"You want to see people?"

Clark frowned. "Not... whatever you're thinking. I just need to be myself again," he said awkwardly.

"Hmm." Bruce hadn't dismissed it. He knew it was coming, and he knew that at some point Clark would have to go back to his old life. Still, it stung to hear the words. He had to know. "Are you... going back to Metropolis?"

"Maybe. Um—I'm not sure if the Daily Planet is where I want to be right now. I could go back to Kansas, but... that feels wrong too. I'm honestly not sure. But while I think about it, it would be good to at least get myself on the map again."

They planned for Clark to go with him to the newly-rebuilt Wayne Financial Plaza where he would meet with Bruce's lawyer and discuss what to doto go about getting his credentials back and have his cell phoneswitched into his own name, et cetera.

While he waited for the lawyer, Clark visited the observatory level, where a section of the west wall overlooking the harbor was dedicated to a memorial of the lives lost inside the tower during General Zod's attack on Metropolis.

He smiled as he heard all the people marveling at the height and the view. He considered himself lucky to not have to be in a building every time he wanted to see it.

Near the harbor there was the remains of the memorial, still damaged but also now littered with flowers and stuffed animals. Curious, Clark headed for the elevator.

When he reached the memorial, the first thing he noticed gave him chills so bad he visibly shook as they crawled up his spine and down his arms. It was clearly a headstone in the ground, onyx black and shiny with his crest embossed on it. Underneath, the words "if you seek his monument, look around you" made his heart lurch in his chest. He did look around. The sky was clear blue, reflecting its purity in the harbor's water below. A ferry honked in the distance, and around him, kids were playing, jumping and chasing each other between the park benches and over the huge slabs of granite that had been crumbled into chunks large enough to also be used as park benches. The implication brought tears into his eyes. he blinked them away before they could spill.

Beside him, a woman in a dark green jacket knelt beside the headstone, her fingers tracing gently over the S shape of his crest. He watched her, his heart in his throat, as she sniffed once, and then again. He wanted to say something to her, but sheer shock kept his lips sealed.

Finally, when she was about to leave he said, "Can we... talk?"

She froze. Her shook as she lifted it to her mouth, and then her bright, blue eyes met his, tears pouring out of them in a steady stream. She let out a trembling breath, getting ready to say his name, but he shook his head. "Shh," he said gently. "Come on. Let's have a seat."

* * *

**BRUCE WATCHED** as the two sat, talking at length to each other. He would pat her hand or brush her tears or her hair away, true caring and love pouring out of him like a goddamn waterfall. Finally, after about a half hour, he stood and helped her to her feet. Framing her cheeks in his hands, he left a soft kiss on her forehead, and then another one on her lips. He said something he couldn't make out, and then she embraced him tightly before they parted, Clark never looking back and the woman—well, she looked back every few steps. He couldn't blame her.

She had always been Clark's one true friend, and one true love.

Bruce couldn't help the acid filling him seeming to rise from his toes all the way up his spine, burning inside his brain and making his ears echo his own heartbeat as if he were under water. Clark walked back towards the Plaza, and Bruce got back in his car.

* * *

**AT THE TOWER,** before Clark could even get a word out, Bruce was pulling him into his office and slamming the door. "Hey, what—"

"Did you even _want_ to see the lawyer? Or did you just come here for her? Did you seriously fucking tell me you wanted come here to see a lawyer so you could meet that tramp behind my back?!"

Clark's eyes darkened and his fist clenched. "Don't you _ever_ talk about her like that again."

"Now you're _defending_ her?! She left you!"

"No she didn't," Clark said calmly. "I know that now."

"Good for you Clark. Have a nice life, I hope you guys are great together."

Clark's eyes narrowed, confused at the hurt behind Bruce's furious words. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw you," Bruce seethed. "I saw you talking to her, and I saw you touching her. I saw you _kiss_ her."

Clark was frozen for a moment, but then he recovered, shrugging. "And?"

Bruce bristled, his fists clenching. "And?! AND?!"

"Yeah. And?"

"And _you_ are _mine,_ " Bruce hissed, invading Clark's personal space. Each step he took matched a retreating step from Clark, until his back was against the wall, and Bruce's hands rested on either side of his head. "You don't _get_ to kiss anyone the fuck else. _You._ _Belong. To me._ " The words hung in the air for a long moment.

Clark wasn't afraid, of course. Clark thought it was kind of... okay, _really_ hot. He'd never pegged himself as the type to be turned on by someone's jealousy, but holy shit, angry, jealous, Batman-rage Bruce, brown eyes snapping with fury and fingers clenching into fists at either side of Clarks head, Bruce's demeanor was two steps to the left of obscene. Clark swallowed a lungful of air and made himself think about what was actually happening.

Instead of getting angry, like Bruce had expected, Clark became... quiet. His eyes lowered, and his pulse started jumping in his neck like a nervous tick. He watched, fascinated, as Clark held himself perfectly still, visibly hearing himself breathe until he could slow his breaths down. _Holy shit, is he... did he_ like _that?_ Bruce wondered, taken aback enough for some of his anger to ebb away. There was a very dark part of his mind which he refused to acknowledge that liked it also.

With a deep breath, Clark stepped around Bruce and walked toward the window, studying the cityscape before he finally said, "I'm glad." Then he turned around, meeting Bruce's eyes. "What are we doing?" he asked. "You and I have been... messing around... I guess? But I stay in your house and we share the same bed, and you have this effect on me that no one has ever had before. I don't just feel safe, I feel strong. Strong enough to face anything, even death again. But I can't tell what any of that means to you." Then he motioned to the wall, and then waved his hand between them. "And this... I mean, I'm not complaining, but I don't really understand it. I want... I want you to feel the same."

Bruce was stuck. "W-well then why were you..."

"I was saying goodbye." Clark sank into one of the soft, plush couches that made up a sitting area in the large, executive office. "I went to see the monument. I didn't know that they'd..." He swallowed. "It's a bit disorienting to see your own head stone."

Bruce nodded. "I guess it would be. We'll have to ask Jesus Christ Himself. The only person I can think of that might have seen His."

Clark chuckled despite himself. "Sure, we'll have to if we get a chance. Anyway, she came. I didn't know she would be there. She was crying for me, and I didn't... I didn't want to do all of this without some closure with her. So we talked. I told her about coming back and about everything you've done for me. I told her... well, I told her about you." Clark's eyes cut away from Bruce's face, looking out the window again. "My death cut her to her soul. She said she refused to come because she didn't want false hope. She said that if you failed it would be like losing me all over again, and she wouldn't have survived it. Can you blame her?"

The hot acid in Bruce's spine washed away with ice water. "No," he said roughly.

It was silent for a while before Clark continued. "I told her that I understood and that one day, maybe, we could be friends again. She cried more, but... we understand each other now. And I have the ending that I needed." He looked up again, this time a knowing look in his eyes. "Why were you so angry, really?"

Bruce sighed and his shoulders slumped. Then he said, "You have this effect on me that no one has ever had before. I don't want to think about you having that effect on anyone else. I want... you to be... for _me._ Everything you told me, about how I make you feel—strong and capable again—that's all I want to be for you. I can't explain why, but..." Bruce sighed. "I want to be strong for you when you feel like you can't be."

Clark smiled. "You have been."

Bruce met his eyes and smiled too. "Good."

"The same way you want to be... my strength, there's something that happens to me when I see you. I want... I don't know how to explain but...I guess it is, I want to be your defender."

"And you've been," Bruce answered steadily. Then he sat down next to Clark. "I apologize," he said sincerely. "I shouldn't have assumed."

Clark smiled wider, his eyes light with mischief. "You're really combative when you're jealous, aren't you?"

"Don't make me jealous," Bruce said with an unapologetic shrug. Clark's eyes cut to the wall, and his expression said everything Bruce needed to know. Clark would definitely make Bruce jealous again.

"I still don't... think you answered my question. What does it all mean to you?"

Bruce thought about that for a while. "It means this: When all of this started, you were my enemy. I made myself learn everything I could about your weaknesses. Then you... you _died..._ and I couldn't help but learn everything I could about your memory. Now you're alive, and you became my teammate, my companion-my friend, even. And I was happy that I could learn about all of your strengths. Now, I want to learn more. I want to learn about _you,_ Clark. I want to learn about your _soul._ " Bruce turned to him then, taking his hands and meeting his gaze evenly. "It means that for once, the only thing I want is to just be happy with you." Then he leaned forward, his lips a breath away from Clark's. "I _am_ happy with you," he said, and then their lips met.

The kiss was different than the ones they normally shared. Those kisses were in the heat of their raw, passionate moments. They were kisses made of always tasted like raw energy and anticipation, and their pace was always demanding, consuming. This was different. Bruce was kissing Clark patiently, like they had all the time in the world.

When they finally broke apart, Clark asked, "Does this mean we're... together now?"

Bruce rolled his eyes. "We've been 'together', Clark, for a while now. But maybe it's time to take that more seriously. Would you like that?"

Clark nodded, his expression elated. "Very much."

 


	7. Epilogue (Chapter 7)

 

**THE FIRST THING** Clark did was tell his mother. All he did was call her and say, "You were right. It is easier now."

She answered, "I'm happy for you, son."

He spoke to her every day, and sometimes Bruce would hang around, teasing him and coming up with some snappy rejoinder for his mother to hear over the line. Eventually, as a joke, Bruce began to call her "Mama Martha" which to her was equally endearing and irritating, but then one day, he'd said the Mama part without the 'Martha' and she didn't correct him. After that, she always called him 'son' the same way she did to Clark, and Clark told her once that it meant the world to Bruce that she considered him family.

"He is, Clark. He brought you back to me," she said simply. Then she added, "but don't worry, you're still my favorite." Clark had laughed and then, upon Bruce's arrival home, proceeded to brag about being Martha's favorite. The teasing and jokes that ensued made her warm inside. Martha never heard her son be so free with his laughter before, and listening to him be so happy and free despite the tremendous burden he chose to carry gave her peace. Her son was back, alive, and more joyful than she'd ever seen him be.

Every day she let his new love for life pour out over her, and every day hung up with the same words:

"I love you both. Take care of each other."

* * *

**SUMMER** was in full swing in Gotham. Clark noticed that the people of this city had a strange sense of freedom. They would open the fire extinguishers on hot days, driving the firefighters nuts but affording a moment of fun for their children to play on the sidewalks. People stood together and socialized while they smoked cigarettes, and others just sat outside their buildings and watched the world around them. Kids played games and drew pictures on the sidewalks, people threw block parties and rooftop parties at night.

Another thing that became frequent was Bruce's trips to Metropolis or other cities for functions or galas. It was briefly a point of contention because of Bruce's tendency to go to them with famous women, starting frenzy upon frenzy of tabloid rumors, each of which made Clark furious. He'd ended up calling in a favor, and Lois got an exclusive interview with the Planet's Society section in which Bruce officially announced that he was with someone that he was very happy with. Between that and a photo shoot and interview with some magazine, and soon it was everywhere that forever single Bruce Wayne was off the market for good.

The internet promptly broke.

That was a full month before Bruce's next event, a fundraiser and silent auction for his foundation for the victims of Zod's attack on Metropolis and their families. He was going to make an appearance, of course, and they'd talked at length about going together. Bruce wanted to make sure Clark was okay with everything, and it was driving Clark nuts.

On the night of the event, Bruce rubbed his hands up and down Clark's upper arms. "You know you might end up being a celebrity by proxy now, right? I mean, are you okay with that?"

"I told you I'd handle it. I'll just... It will be fine. I promise."

"Look, if you really want, we can skip this and just—"

"Bruce."

"Alright, alright. I'm just worried, okay? I don't want this to be too much for you and then you bolt on me."

"Is that what all this is about?"

Bruce nodded, his real worry showing in his eyes and weighing on his broad shoulders. "I don't want you to have to leave me because of this."

Clark stared at him, appalled and slightly offended. "I would never, Bruce."

"You say that now, but what if you have to choose? Me or Superman, which one?"

Clark pulled him into a hug, reveling as always in the feeling of holding him. Then he pulled away and sat down. "Did I ever tell you how Lois found me?"

Bruce frowned but shook his head.

"She worked backwards from just before Zod's appearance, finding all my aliases and rescues. She followed the pattern straight to my mother's front door."

"That's... actually disturbing."

"Yeah. The thing is, anyone could have done it if they knew what to look for. Hell, Luthor probably did." Clark looked up at Bruce with a half smile. "You could have, too, Mr. Dark Knight."

Bruce arched an eyebrow.

"The thing is, I can't change who I am or where I come from. I can't change what I can do. All I can do is adapt. If that means that we're going to have to play hide and go seek with the press so be it. I don't want to lose you because of who I am, any more than you want to lose me because of who you are."

Bruce nodded, sinking next to him on the couch. "I never thought of it like that, but you're right. We'll just have to play it by ear, I guess."

"And we will. I'm ready, if you are."

Bruce nodded, smiling. "I am. Shall we?"

* * *

**THEY FLEW MARTHA** to Gotham for that Thanksgiving, where she and Alfred had gone "mad scientist" on them before producing the meal of the century. Knowing that he had nowhere to go, Clark also invited Barry, who came in through the Bat Cave entrance looking like a nervous wreck. "I don't do dinners," he muttered, "Just like I don't do brunch, or—"

"Relax," Bruce said with a laugh, "It'll be fine." And it had been. Alfred was already used to his lack of social skills, as were Clark and Bruce, and Martha shrugged it off like she wasn't seated at a table full of superheroes. Moreover, sensing that Barry too was starved for a mother figure, Martha gave herself the task of making him feel as welcome as possible. Barry ate it up, and Bruce muttered to Clark at some point that if he wasn't sitting in Martha's lap by the end of the night while she reads him a bed time story, something was seriously wrong with the world. Clark choked on his drink, coughing to hide his laughter.

Barry had glanced between Bruce and Clark once before going "ahh" and nodding to himself, and that had been the end of the revelations of their relationship for the evening.

* * *

**CLARK DID**  end up speaking to Perry at the Daily Planet, who was completely flabbergasted at first, but then managed to collect himself long enough to hear the younger man out and work out a way for him to have a job. Perry wrote him a recommendation that was so spectacular it might as well have been the crown jewels, and then he sent him overto a subsidiary of the Planet called the _Gotham City Chronicle_. Clark was happy with the move into Gotham, happy to stay close to Bruce and leave his story in Metropolis behind. He got an apartment in a high rise complex in the 'better' part of town and near the paper, and often biked to work just like he used to in Metropolis. Arriving home made him feel... relaxed.

He still watched over Metropolis at night, and of course, Lois.

There were rumors of him flying around again for months, but with Bruce actively shutting those rumors down and his own special attention to staying away from cameras, no one had been able to confirm or deny it. Lois had also taken the effort to secretly leak articles denying his return, for which he was grateful. They'd talked a few times at length until they were comfortable again, to Bruce's mild chagrin.

He decided that, in a rare flare of theatricality, he would make sure his return from the dead was made public just in time for Christmas. He floated above the city and waited. Sure enough, a family had somehow set their live christmas tree on fire, causing the upper six levels of their apartment building to burn. He rescued every single person and for good measure, used his breath to contain the fire for the fire fighters.

The next morning he was in Bruce's house when he saw the morning news with the headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen: _BACK FROM THE DEAD! Superman saves several Metropolis families from a burning building in a Christmas miracle_ while footage of him flying just above, partially obscured in smoke, played over and over.

Bruce glanced at the scrolling headline and chuckled. "Merry Christmas, Clark."

"Yeah," he said. "Merry Christmas."

His phone buzzed on the counter, and a push note appeared. _iMessage from Lois Lane._ He quickly swiped it open. _Welcome back. Thanks for making Perry wake me up at two in the morning for this story._ He laughed at that. _I hope you two are having a fantastic Christmas,_ the message ended. He quickly typed back.

_You know evil never sleeps, and fires don't go on holiday vacations ;) sadly, that means that neither do you. Merry Christmas, Lo. Stay safe._

"Who was that?" Bruce asked curiously.

"It was Lois. She wished us both a happy holiday and she said thank you for the late night story. The last part was probably sarcasm."

"Merry Christmas to her too," Bruce said eventually. He still was probably more jealous than necessary where it concerned Lois, but he was learning to let go. She probably hated his guts, though—he knew he would if the situation were reversed. But as long as she was showing Clark good will, he couldn't complain. Too much.

Clark was watching him as he spoke, though and probably knew his entire thought process. Instead of saying anything, he simply wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in for a deep kiss, daring him with his body to press him against the counter. Bruce groaned and pulled back. "We are not ordering take out for our Christmas morning breakfast. Don't start things we can't finish."

Clark just shrugged, and impish smile pulling at his lips. "We have time."

Bruce let that sink into his mind. Absorbing it and processing it, all while watching Clark's blue eyes take in his expressions, probably trying to read his thought process again. Then he smiled. "Yeah," he said. "We have time."

Clark tilted his head the way he did when he was trying to figure something out. "What is it?"

"Just thinking about us." Bruce let himself get pulled back into that embrace he loved so much, doing his best to explain so that he could ease the concern in Clark's eyes. "You weren't here last Christmas. It's... kind of surreal."

"I'm here now," Clark said gently, rubbing Bruce's arm.

"Yeah, you are. There's nothing I've ever been happier about. If someone had told me that would be the case a year and a half ago, I would have been... skeptical at best." He shrugged, stepping back. "Now I think I would laugh if they'd said the opposite."

"That's a relief," Clark teased.

"Seriously," Bruce chuckled. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm a better person because of you. I love you, Clark."

Clark felt like the CD that made his brain work was skipping. "W-what?"

"I said, I love you, Clark."

Stunned, Clark was completely stuck for what could have been thirty seconds, or thirty years. Then, Clark crushed him into a tight hug, causing Bruce to cough a little as he returned the hug. "I love you, too," he whispered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cut and wrap!   
> thanks for reading, let me know what you think about this work and all my others :) i'm working out something to follow up this work. it will be angsty, that's for sure, and it will only be here on AO3. keep an eye out for it :)


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